


A Backward Glance

by so_many_of_the_ships



Category: Bourne (Movies), Bourne Series - All Media Types, The Bourne Identity (2002)
Genre: Jason Bourne - Freeform, Marie - Freeform, The Bourne Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 05:57:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5194721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/so_many_of_the_ships/pseuds/so_many_of_the_ships
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I was requested to do a Jason/Reader fic, but I can't stand writing in second person, so it's written in first person, but no name is ever established for the main character, so you can pretend to be her.</p><p>It was a normal day. All types of clothing had come in for me today until they were just a mess of colors with different pick up dates. I have been working at Draco’s Drycleaning for almost a year now, and I am about to lose my mind. My day starts with a shower, and if I have time, an attempt at makeup, and a quick bike ride downtown to the drycleaners. Then I am here from eight until six every day of the week, and eight to five on the weekends. So in short, boring life, boring job, boring me. All of that changed the day that I met Jason Bourne.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was a normal day. All types of clothing had come in for me today until they were just a mess of colors with different pick up dates. I have been working at Draco’s Drycleaning for almost a year now, and I am about to lose my mind. My day starts with a shower, and if I have time, an attempt at makeup, and a quick bike ride downtown to the drycleaners. Then I am here from eight until six every day of the week, and eight to five on the weekends. So in short, boring life, boring job, boring me. All of that changed the day that I met Jason Bourne.

Like I said earlier, it was a normal day. We had just received our last batch of clothes, and I was closing for the night when I saw a man stumbling past the giant window at the front of the building. He was holding his shoulder as he looked over it. At first, I was confused, but I continued to watch him. He soon disappeared from my line of sight. Silently I slipped from my integral post of manning the tv in my corner of the office and snuck out the back door.

It did not take me long to figure out which way he had gone if the sound of tipping trashcans was any clue. Once I turned the corner into the alley where he had disappeared into, I immediately felt the solid, unmoving brick make contact with my back.

“Woah!” I screamed. Everything was bright white. I blinked my eyes once in an attempt at regaining sight when it registered that my shoulders were being pinned to the wall behind me.

“Who are you and why are you having me followed?!” His voice was demanding yet restrained as if he was in pain. As I studied his face in the dim light coming from the street lamp, I could tell that he was in fact in pain. No small amount of blood was staining the shoulder that he had been holding when I first noticed him.

“Is that a bullethole?!”

“What’s your name-“ he continued to glare up at me for a second but then slowly tilted his head and slowly let me down.

As I was wondering why he suddenly decided to let me stand on my own feet, I felt a sudden wave of nausea sweep over me, and I remembered the last time I saw that much blood and passed out. “You need to sit down,” he continued flatly nodding to the ground. “If you feel like you will throw up, take a deep breath.”

His voice remained a constant as if he was simply reading a handbook that just happened to have helpful tips on how not to pass out or upchuck your leftover spaghetti. Once I finally calmed down, he knelt next to me, doing his best not to wave his shoulder around in my face. Pinching the bridge of his nose, a long, deep breath emptied itself from his lungs and he held his hand out.

“John Michael,” he paused as he shook my hand, “Kane. What’s you- No, I’ll just call you . . . Karen. I don’t want to . . . Put you in danger. Can’t have a nice girl like yourself getting hurt, can we?” He smiled softly, taking his own slow and deep breaths.

I felt bad. Here was this seemingly nice guy here with my weak stomach in an alley. He could be bleeding out, but he’s helping me calm do- wait. ‘Getting hurt?’ My mouth verbally echoed my mind in no time, honestly worried of what might happen if this man got shot. “Getting hurt?”

It seemed to have struck a nerve and he shook his head quickly, sniffling once. I had been too distracted to notice the lingering tears in his eyes. Something had happened. I did not think until later that of course he was crying. He was shot, but these tears were different. They were pain, but a different kind of pain. He shook his head again and nodded once to me. “Are you good? Can you stand?”

As I nodded, he reached out his hand again and helped me up. Having now noticed the tears I cleared my throat and gently tapped him on his not so bloody shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“I was just shot.”

“You were crying.”

“I was shot with a bullet.”

Laughing half-heartedly at his lackluster attempt at a joke, he took a small breath and nodded pointedly back at the drycleaners. “You better get back before they notice that you are gone.”

“I . . . Will you be okay?” I asked, concern growing for this man I had just met.

“Yea, I’ll be fine. I just have to go patch this up.” He shuffled off, but not before turning back to nod just once. “Stay safe, Karen, all right?”

I nodded in turn, watching him leave, thinking to myself that I would never see this man again.

Oh, was I wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning began the same as always. I had almost forgotten about John Michael, well, Jason, but then it all came back to me as I sat up and remembered the night before as the bruises on my back from hitting the wall made their appearance as I stretched.

                “Ufgh . . .” I slowly lowered my arms and stood, taking my spot in front of my mirror as I slipped my tank top off to get a look at the bruises on my back. They were heavier where my shoulder blades stuck out. “Guess I’m wearing a t-shirt today,” I mused, picking up my favorite light blue tee and shrinking into it.

                Running my fingers through my hair once, I slipped it up into a bun and walked out the door of my condo with my bike. My normal route took me about fifteen minutes. It was a about a two mile ride downtown, I could get it to about ten if I really took advantage of the downward hills, but I was more interested in staying alive than Mr. Draco’s temper that flared whenever I did not clock in at exactly seven in the ungodly morning.

                But my ineptitude as a morning person is not why I am writing this. Jason Bourne is the reason. So I finally made it to Draco’s—on time, and I parked my bike outside, tying it down. As I slung my backpack onto my back (because backpacks are infinitely easier to bike with than a purse) I walked inside and unlocked the door, turning on the various lights and radios and TVs. Mr. Draco’s favorite is Frasier. We watch it All. Of. The. Time. By this time “I am (no longer) listening.” I turned on Andy Griffith this time, hoping he would not notice, but knowing he would.

                Well he did notice.

                After eleven hours and one season of Frasier later, I closed, and locked down. Apparently, being the owner of the company means you can leave at lunch and not come back, so I was pretty much in charge for the second half of the day, but hey, I just love working. (Did you hear the sarcasm in my voice?)

                There is a diner right across the street from my condo that I eat at every night. They serve breakfast, and I always get it because of my lack of any real breakfast on normal days. Like I said, my sleep is important to me, and if that means sleeping in a bit and forgoing breakfast, my poptarts will remain alive one more day.  That night, I rode down the street back to my condo and put my bike inside. I locked my door and walked down the steps, but I forgot my wallet, so I had to turn back around and unlock the door again to get it.

                Wallet and hunger in hand, I jogged across the street to the little diner and sat at my same spot. Tonight I decided to go a little crazy. I got bacon with my pancakes and eggs instead of sausage. Daring, right? Once I had conquered my meal and paid the bill, I stood and walked back across the street to my condominium. I reached forward and put my key in, but the door was already unlocked. I remembered having gone back for my wallet and assumed that I must have forgotten to lock it.

                As I stepped inside and turned to lock the door, a hand wrapped around my mouth and I let out a loud, or tried to, cry that was muffled by the large hands on my mouth. “Shhhh shhhh! It’s okay! It’s me, it’s me,” my assailant whispered. The voice was familiar, and I registered that it was John Michael, but why was he in my condo?  Eventually, he let go and turned me to face him, which he should have realized was a mistake because he was covered in blood, a large scrape on his cheek.

                This is where I pass out.


End file.
